Don't HAve a Title YEt

Whispers inside the stationary vehicle
Are louder than the metallic movement surrounding us.
Spires rise to the sky
At variable heights.
Heat rises and falls
Circulating in the empty atmosphere.
A certain fury can be felt.
Lavender implosions swallow the world
On your left and right
Allowing drops of rose to spring forth from the ground.
Fire burns impressions from the past,
To create ideas of the present.
Emancipate your feelings of this placebo love.
Condensation on the inside
Lets you draw words of romance
That those on the outside
Will misinterpret.
But what will happen
When the engine turns off and the sun goes down
And the pedestrians leave
While only stars and streetlights alone illuminate our path?
Will an affirmation of us be discovered?
Or shall desire overcome it all,
And burn all the roses?
Even when these roses have never embraced snow.

Lines Written with Futile Hope

You are as real as the moonlight on my hand.
Doesn't it feel beautiful.
So sentimental,
But not enough.
Lamentation for the day that has passed,
The one that was young for a while,
But realized that it could last for so short a time.
A small while,
As the tides rushed the shore
And overwhelmed the coasts
Showing clouds of dying color
Through its liquescent window.
Time, minutes of sadly minute length,
Evacuates the clouds from the sky,
Defeats the bluebird's song and the
Evergreens' everlasting effervescence;
The presence within the atmosphere is now gone.

When Autumn comes today
Will it show colors?
Will the dying tree,
In it's last flourish for light and glory,
Refuse me the yellows and reds that would line these long streets,
As I keep the aqua-tainted ocean in eyesight?
Transitioning into a biting frost,
All I can see are the lines of smoke-entwined snow on the pavement,
And bare oaks of brown,
Swelling with the scent
Holding its breath
Until I pass, and then exhales.
Animals burrow into the gardens that don't provide,
Into homes that don't exist.

The day is broken,
While I sit among the pasture of leaves
Freshly matted down by my own steps.
I wish to mend it
But my fingers are decrepit and mangled
From brushing them through miles of wilted grass and lonely fences.
Healed just a bit,
I smile when the sun turns red.
So simple, it sprays a mist of rose within the sky.
But I turn to the Eastern shore,
With dejection fastened to the heart.
And hope for more.

Mr. Eliot

Why, Mr. Eliot,
Does my hand fail me when I write without meter?
It trembles like a distant hurricane
Close to shore.
Why am I inspired by rain beating upon my roof
By birds eclipsing the sun so gracefully
By love unfulfilled?
Take a portrait with me, sir.
You are long gone,
Dead years before I had seen lavender skies.
I am gone too
With each line I dedicate to your legacy
Creativity is invoked by many things,
But should the past be one?
Non-verbal seance,
The only sound is the candle's flicker,
My scratches at paper.
Each line I write makes me sicker.

The women, Mr. Eliot,
Why, the women come and go.
Boats rock to and fro
Drinking four glasses of chardonnay
Ruffle, rest, and call it a day.

Beg and plead to build a shrine.
I have no talent
I refuse to behold tradition.
For, Mr. Eliot, you refuse to listen.
Please be witness to the light above my head.
Spotlights in the blackened sky.

-She twists the rose in her naked hands.
We spread heavily across barren lands.
Angels swirl lightly over islands with lovely disposition.

I fall backwards
Hoping for someone to be there to save me.
Eyes above spy down upon us.
Wonder who I am.
Where I am going.
You cannot care why,
As streaks near the moon reverberate
While I try to envision what is not here.

First Poem by NMQ

Everyday he works.
Gets up early to do hard work.
goes home
He used to work hard at home too.
but back then at least he had his family
his wife, his child, his parents
Here, he might have a friend, a cousin, an acquaintance.
at home he wasn't alone
Here, he is surrounded by strangers everyday.
Secluded in his new environment.
His new life here full of shiny new things and his newly found friends
Are they just enough to fill the void, to erase the memories?
of his life when he used to work for a life he could enjoy with them